Chapter 16 #3
“Never let me leave for a shift with bad blood between us,” she’d said, early in their relationship when they were still learning each other’s edges and soft spots. “Never go to sleep angry. Always make it right because you never know which goodbye will be the last one.”
It had been an adjustment for him, that rule.
For someone like Ethan, someone who’d grown up alone in the foster system, someone who’d learned early that conflict meant you’d be moved to a new home soon, sitting down to talk through disagreements had felt dangerous.
Vulnerable. Like picking at a scab that was better left alone.
But Sarah had insisted. Had made him practice it, made him stay even when he wanted to run, made him say the hard things and hear the hard things and work through them until they were okay again.
And he’d grown to like it. Liked being accountable to someone.
Liked having someone who cared enough to fight for the relationship instead of just letting him walk away.
Liked the intimacy of those late-night conversations where they’d hash out their hurt feelings and misunderstandings and come out stronger on the other side.
The night Sarah died, they’d followed the rule.
She’d been annoyed with him about something, though he couldn’t even remember what now, but something stupid about him forgetting to pick up groceries or not calling when he said he would.
But they’d talked it through before her shift at the hospital, had hugged on the front porch, had said “I love you” before she drove away.
Thank God they had. Thank God their last words to each other hadn’t been angry. Thank God the last time he’d touched her, it had been gentle. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
Because later that night, she was dead, and at least Ethan had that. At least he knew she’d died knowing he loved her. At least their last moments together had been good.
He’d broken the rule with Lydia. Had walked out angry.
Had driven away with her tears still wet on her face and the hurt in her eyes still burning into his memory.
Had spent his entire shift thinking about it, regretting it, but not doing anything to fix it because he was too proud or too stubborn or too afraid.
And now she sounded like she was leaving.
Thank you for everything.
Ethan pushed the barely-touched toast away and buried his face in his hands. The exhaustion was catching up with him now, twelve hours of work on top of no sleep the night before, on top of the emotional toll of the fight and the fear and the regret.
He should shower. Should change into clean clothes. Should make himself presentable for when Lydia and the kids got back.
But the thought of standing in the shower was too much.
Instead, Ethan made his way to the couch. The same couch where he and Lydia had sat, kissing under the Christmas lights, talking about Sarah and Tom and the possibility of something new. The same couch where he’d felt like maybe his story wasn’t over. Like maybe there were more chapters to write.
He was just going to sit for a minute. Just rest his eyes. He needed to stay awake until they got back. Needed to be alert and ready to apologize, to make things right, to beg Lydia not to leave if that’s what she was planning.
9 AM. They’d be back by 9 AM. He checked his phone. 8:47. Thirteen minutes. He could stay awake for thirteen minutes.
Ethan’s eyes drifted closed.
He tried to fight it, tried to force them back open, but the exhaustion was like a weight pressing down on his entire body. The couch was soft. The house was quiet. His body was running on fumes after a twelve-hour shift and no sleep.
Just for a minute, he told himself. Just a quick rest and then he’d get up. Would be standing in the kitchen when they walked in. Would have the right words ready. Would fix this.
Just a minute …
His breathing slowed. Deepened. The tension in his shoulders began to ease despite his best efforts to stay alert.
The last thing Ethan thought before sleep claimed him was that he’d violated Sarah’s rule. Had let someone he cared about walk away angry. Had left bad blood between them.
And now he might never get the chance to make it right.
The house settled around him, quiet and still. The Christmas tree lights blinked on in the living room. He must have left them on. Red and green and gold casting soft shadows across the walls, across the nativity scene on the mantel, across Ethan’s sleeping form on the couch.
Outside, the November morning brightened toward full daylight. The sun crested the mountains, painting the frost-covered grass in shades of gold and pink. A cardinal landed on the porch railing, bright red against the gray wood, and sang its morning song.
And Ethan dozed, exhausted and heartsick, waiting for a family that might not come back. Waiting for a chance to apologize that might never come. Waiting to find out if he’d destroyed the best thing that had happened to him since Sarah died.
The clock on the wall ticked toward 9 AM.
Any minute now, they’d be home.
Any minute now, he’d know if that note had meant goodbye.
Any minute now.